


angelic sweets

by livingtheobsessedlife



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale just wants to scoop ice cream until the end of the world okay he'd be happy with that, Feelings, Get Together, Ice Cream Parlors, Ice Cream Shop AU, M/M, and Crowley wants to sit there and watch him scoop ice cream, give them a break okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingtheobsessedlife/pseuds/livingtheobsessedlife
Summary: “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Crowley declares, making a show of licking his spoon clean, “The pink wallpaper in this place really is the most insufferable color. Ever think of changing it?”“I rather like it,” Aziraphale responds, his nose in the air as he dunks the ice cream scoop into water, leaning into the counter to raise an eyebrow at his demon counterpart, “Pink’s a happy color, you know.”“Yeah, well, it makes me want to throw up.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	angelic sweets

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! this was inspired by preshfinn's awesome fanart of an au where aziraphale opened a deserts shop instead of a book shop ([found here](https://preshfinn.tumblr.com/post/185817343198/au-where-aziraphale-opened-a-desserts-shop-instead)). I immediately fell in love with not only the color scheme but the very idea, and after 8 months of going back to this fic it's finally done! This is my first good omens fic, and it was so fun to write! I hope I was able to do our resident ethereal beings justice!

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Crowley declares, making a show of licking his spoon clean, “The pink wallpaper in this place really is the most insufferable color. Ever think of changing it?”

“I rather like it,” Aziraphale responds, his nose in the air as he dunks the ice cream scoop into water, leaning into the counter to raise an eyebrow at his demon counterpart, “Pink’s a _happy_ color, you know.”

“Yeah, well, it makes me want to throw up.”

“You’re still here though, aren’t you? Despite the wallpaper?”

Crowley waves a defiantly bored hand in Aziraphale’s direction, “Oh, details, details, angel. It’s still the worst color. I’m a demon, I spend my time here _because_ the wallpaper is horrendous, don’t you understand? A little torture is good for the soul, angel.”

Aziraphale’s faint smile says more than enough as he grabs for a rag and starts wiping down the front counter. Crowley rather loudly finishes off his current bowl, licking it clean with his feet kicked up on the neighboring stool. Aziraphale sighs, somehow simultaneously expressing agitation and contentment. 

“Another scoop then, Crowley?”

“Hmm,” Crowley mutters, eyes fluttering closed behind his dark sunglasses as he taps at his chin with his spoon, “I’m thinking rocky road this time, yeah?”

Aziraphale sounds tired but rather gratified as he moves toward the rocky road, “Good choice. One scoop of rocky road with- hmm, I’m thinking hot fudge, crunch, and whipped cream, with a cherry on top of course- coming right up!”

The bell on the door dings just as Aziraphale’s working the scoop into the hard ice cream. He looks up and smiles at the new customer like a beacon of light, “Welcome to Angelic Sweets,” Aziraphale beams, “I’ll be right with you, sir.”

//////

For all his pomp and circumstance, Crowley isn’t _always_ at Angelic Sweets. 

He’s a demon for god’s sake, he’s got places to be, humans to torture. He can’t constantly be hanging around some ice cream parlor with horrendous wallpaper. That would just be plain unproductive. Obviously. 

Sometimes he’ll manage a visit every day for a month straight, spending hours at a time at a barstool opposite Aziraphale behind the counter, and it’ll be great. But sometimes, he’ll be away for months or years or decades even. His longest stint away had been 102 years (which was really less than 2 years in Otherworldly-Beings-Who-Have-Been-Alive-For-6000-Years years, if he really wanted to do the math, but that’s besides the point, still a while).

When Crowley returned post-stint during the sin-filled 1960’s to the horrific wallpaper and overflowing personalized sundaes, he found a new touch to the parlor. 

Right there on his usual chair was an elegant C embroidered right into the delicately patterned upholstery for who-knows-how-long. The letter was branded on with a thread that matched the exact same shade of pink as the wallpaper. It’s the most hideous thing Crowley’s seen in his whole life. Crowley decides that he loves it more than anything else. 

“So,” He grins, leaning on the doorway. Aziraphale hadn’t seen him come in, the bell on the door silent only for a demon. Crowley’s counterpart brightens noticeably at the sight of his oldest friend, a melting scoop held high above its cardboard tub in surprise, “You missed me, Angel?”

Aziraphale smiles, and it’s the most tooth-achingly genuine thing Crowley has seen in his 6,000 years of existence. 

“Oh, my dear,” He says, almost coyly, “You know I did.”

Crowley decides then and there that if Aziraphale ever leaves the shop, sells it or moves on or whatever ex-ice cream parlor owners/angels do, Crowley calls dibs on that godforsaken, disgusting-looking chair. Not because it’s the most thoughtful thing anybody’s ever done for him. No. Definitely not because of that. Solely because he never wants anybody else with the initial C to have to look at the damn thing. Obviously. 

The first time he sees the stool, Crowley runs a slender finger along the curve of the C, a small smile hidden beneath the shadows of his face, “Not bad, Angel,” He says, voice low and snide and smothering at least fifteen different innuendos, “Not bad at all.”

There’s a beat of- well it isn’t exactly awkwardness, but it’s something close, something very human that doesn’t quite have a name. There’s a flutter in Crowley’s chest, his eyes glued to a single, thoughtful letter of the alphabet. 

Finally, thankfully, Aziraphale manages to clear his throat, “So, my dear, what kind of ice cream will you have today then?”

It almost feels as if Crowley had just sauntered in the very day before. 100 straight years of ice cream and seeing Aziraphale’s smiling face instead of quests for human suffering and hardlined memos from down under. 

Crowley grins at Aziraphale, finally at peace, “Do you have anything… strawberry?”

“Oh come on, you know I do,” Aziraphale replies, and it’s almost like magic or some miracle but suddenly all the tension just… vanishes, “I hope you don’t mind I stick some waffle cone chunks on it and some white chocolate chips, maybe some whipped cream and fresh strawberries too- ooh that really will be rather delicious. I’ll be right back, Crowley! You just wait right there!”

Aziraphale’s voice gets higher the more excited he gets, mastering the perfect sundae for his best friend. Even Crowley can’t help but smile.

“I’d expect nothing less, angel.”

///////

Crowley promises himself he won’t go that long without a visit anymore after that. 

With a monogrammed spot and everything, with that smile waiting for him from behind the counter, Crowley isn’t sure if his increasingly humanlike heart would let him be away for that long again. 

Sure he’ll disappear every once in awhile still, but even Aziraphale knows, Crowley will always be back. As time goes on, the frequency of Crowley’s visits only increases. 

It’s the 1980’s when his next longest stint away from the shop occurs, this one lasting just over three months (though it feels like years longer, centuries or decades, a month for every week that passes, a lifetime for every day), but he returns, victorious and as evil as ever. 

The summer he returns is a hot one- the hottest one in decades according to the human recorded history. Aziraphale makes a pinched face when Crowley compares it to the winters down in hell, but he’s just being truthful. They really do have an unhealthy, very rather stereotypical penchant for fire, humidity, and miserableness down there. 

With hot summers come extra business for ice cream shops, sweaty humans looking for a well air conditioned building to cool off in and enjoy the complimentary water cups. 

When Crowley comes bursting through the front door like an actor in a theater, Aziraphale smiles as he always does, soft and radiant and seemingly just for Crowley. Then in an instant, he’s melting into the bustle of his shop, serving customers, running back and forth behind the counter like a working rat caught on fire. The summer heat drew people in, barely allowing Aziraphale more than a moment to spare to smile at Crowley, let alone chat.

With the extra business comes loads of other humans- human butts that are most definitely not his own- sitting in his seat at the shop. Crowley is none too pleased with that. Not at all. 

So Crowley returns, expecting to be received magnanimously, maybe a light sprinkling of semi-sarcastic applause. Instead there’s a bustle in his shop and some insufferable human sitting in his chair. 

He’s seething before he even makes it up to the counter. 

It only gets worse when Crowley sidles up to the man in his seat and realizes he’s flirting with Aziraphale and well, that’s just not okay! It has nothing to do with the fact that it’s Aziraphale this man is flirting with, honest, it simply has everything to do with the fact that Aziraphale’s trying to work and earn his keep (even if he could technically just miracle said keep and never work a day in his life, but that’s not the point) and this nosy loser human man keeps getting in the way of that. 

Crowley can’t let somebody get in Aziraphale’s space unwanted, not while he’s there. He’s a demon, of course he takes action. 

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Crowley says to the stranger, extending one of his naturally lanky arms to lean on the counter around the man in his seat, “Do you know you’re in my seat?”

To his credit, the stranger doesn’t respond maliciously. He looks sheepish, actually, but Crowley has dealt with one too many demons to fall for his act that easily.

“I’m just trying to cool off on a hot day, sir,” The stranger tells him, a southern drawl pulling at his voice like sugar-stapled honey(sir, Crowley thinks, flabbergasted, who’s he calling sir?), “Why, am I causing you any trouble?”

“Actually,” Crowley says, a confident emphasis on his words, “You are. You see, you’re in my seat… sir.”

“Oh, well, I really am sorry if that’s the case. I didn’t know there were assigned seats.”

He doesn’t move. 

“I’d really prefer it if you vacated my seat. If you did so willingly, that would just be superb.”

“I’m okay here, if that’s alright.”

The balls on this guy. Humans, sometimes. Really. 

“Look, guy,” Crowley accuses. The bottom half of the C isn’t quite covered the way the stranger is sitting on his bar stool, “If you don’t leave, I’m gonna-“

Crowley’s cut off by Aziraphale storming over to the pair of them. He’s only slightly out of breath when he says, “Is there a problem over here?”

The foreign human looks mighty proud of himself when he smirks at Aziraphale, fully expecting to win the argument once and for all, and says, “He’s trying to take my seat.”

To both of their surprises, Aziraphale sides with Crowley, “Because that’s his spot!” Aziraphale insists, almost aggressively. Aziraphale waves his hands expressively, “The C stands for Crowley. Now, out.”

The blatant aghast on the customer’s face would almost make Crowley laugh if he weren’t just as surprised. 

“Shoo, shoo. Off you go then,” Aziraphale tuts as if his choice in side had been the obvious one. 

The guy looks pissed, but he slowly lowers himself off the stool with the C and looks between them, “This place is weird, okay. I don’t care how hot it is, I don’t want your service anyway.”

“That’s not what it sounded like,” Crowley mutters under his breath, remembering the man’s awful attempt at flirting with the angel, but nobody hears him anyway, not even Aziraphale. Louder, he says, “Thank you, good sir,” And clambers onto his seat.

Aziraphale smiles, “There,” He says, seemingly at peace with himself, “All better.”

Crowley grins at his angel, crossing one long leg over the other and folding his hands together.

“So, angel,” Crowley sing-songs, “What’re you serving today?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale tuts, moving quickly like the abrupt transition from one film to another in a double feature, “I don’t have time for your antics,” He pauses, then acquiesces, as he always does, “A classic hot fudge sundae and that’s it. I really do need to get back to work at this very moment.”

Crowley grins, enigmatic and dazzling, “Sounds like perfection.”

////////

Crowley’s frequent visits persist for awhile after that, having a small, C-shaped reason to come back. He traipses into the small, strawberry-colored shop out of the harsh, mid afternoon sun, blistering hotly and having the time of his life. He drapes himself over his own carefully monogrammed stool and demands various treats from his closest friend. 

“Something fruity,” he demands, voice sharp, “Something with a lot of candy. Ooh, or maybe one of those delectable syrups you’re always pouring over your sundaes.”

Aziraphale nods busily, every time without fail, no matter the hoard of humans lining up along the laminate countertop, massing about the naugahyde, “Yes, darling,” He’ll say, voice high as he does three things at once, “Coming right up, just one moment.”

One moment becomes two, becomes three, becomes a string of moments that Crowley is much too impatient for. Without a second thought, Crowley dismounts from his spot on one side of the counter and sidles behind to Aziraphale’s side.

“Alright then,” He calls into the crowd, “Who’s next?”

Four separate humans claim to be next. As genius as creating the take-a-number system had been of Crowley, he certainly had to admit that it was moments like these that it would actually come in handy. Effortlessly, he takes all four orders and doles them out to their proper recipients, harshly demanding his compensation and sending them on their way in a split second. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale stares, dumbfounded as the demon digs an ice cream scoop into a hard quart full of pistachio almond ice cream, “What on Earth are you doing back here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Crowley scoffs, handing three sugar cones back to their respective customers without breaking eye contact with Aziraphale. He grins like the bastard he is, “I thought you were running a business here, angel. C’mon now, get to work, yeah?”

Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to make a retort, but he also can’t help but smile wistfully as he turns to the next customer in line, “Welcome to Angelic Sweets,” His voice is all high and gleeful again, “What can I get for you on this fine day?”

////////

For every five insane, line-out-the-door, business crazy summer days, there are three dead silent, maybe-the-whole-world-forgot-ice-cream-exists winter midmornings. Those are Crowley’s favorite. Just him and Aziraphale and a dozen and a half cartons of various ice cream flavors in a glass showcase. 

Aziraphale is leaning against the carefully cleaned laminate, waxing poetic about his latest favorite ice cream flavor, about the good Crowley has been doing for the shop as of late, the mischief Micheal has unknowingly been getting up to in a realm far from their little ice cream shop, when an elderly woman shuffles into the shop. 

Aziraphale looks up as the front bell rings clamorously, smiling brightly at his newest patron, “Morning, ma'am,” He grins warmly at her snow-dropped shoulders, “Welcome to Angelic Sweets, what can I do for you?”

She smiles kindly, eyes sweeping the cool ice cream case, “Oh, I’m just looking. Hope that’s okay.”

Aziraphale beams, “Of course. Take all the time in the world.”

The woman leans on her metal walking cane, eyes squinting as she carefully reads the tiny font on the chalkboard menu above Aziraphale’s head. As she peruses the shop, Aziraphale and Crowley continue quietly talking despite her presence. 

After a not-insignificant amount of time passes, the woman starts to walk toward the door, smiles at Aziraphale as she slowly makes her way in that direction, “Thank you,” She tells him, “I can’t have ice cream anymore because of my health, but I always wanted to come in here. You and your husband always look so comfortable and nice, you’ve got a good place here.”

Aziraphale smiles proudly for a moment before stuttering hopelessly, “Why thank you, ma’am- wait what? _Husband_?”

At the same time, Crowley chokes on a chocolate chip. Aziraphale has to reach across the counter to clap the demon on his back. When the coughing passes, they both look up at the old woman with wide eyes. 

“I might be old,” She says wisely but entirely missing the point of their shock, “But I’m not as close-minded as you might think.”

The woman sweeps out of the store, surprisingly swift and leaving both Aziraphale and Crowley standing there stammering confused excuses in a most human way. 

“What a ridiculous thing to say!” Aziraphale admonishes loudly, though his hands are wringing together. 

Crowley’s fingers tap out an anxious rhythm against the countertop, “Ancient woman doesn’t know what she’s saying,”

“You’re right, and we should just forget it,” There’s a rather telling blush touching at the tips of his cheeks that Crowley misses entirely, “Let me get you another ice cream, my dear.”

Crowley nods distractedly, fingers tapping out an infernal take on morse code spelled out through anxieties and nervous ticks, “Yes, angel,” He agrees, voice soft, “Something with lots of chocolate, yeah?”

Aziraphale skirts to the other side of the toppings bar, as far from Crowley as he can get in those brief moments, “Coming right up!”

When his partner isn’t paying attention, Crowley mutters the word husband under his breath in disbelief like a spell used by witches. For a regular English word, it feels so strangely comfortable on the tip of his pink forked tongue. 

//////

Another winter comes and goes, an irregularly warm early spring brings customers to the shop as often as a flower blossoms just outside. Crowley spent his late fall and winter much like a bear, holed up in Aziraphale’s cozy, gross-pink shop for seven months, oblivious to the humans outside the glass paneled door. 

It’s May when the man shows up. 

From the way he stands at the door, surveying the shop as if it were his own, Crowley immediately dislikes him, watches the way he saunters up to the counter and slaps casually at the laminate. 

He’s tall and wearing a well-tailored suit, and his face is framed by dark, thick-rimmed glasses. The top of the man’s bald head is shiny under the white lights that keep Aziraphale’s shop so well-lit. A shined, brown leather briefcase hangs from his long arm. When he walks, the case hits against his knee. 

“Would you be Mr Fell?” He asks the angel, two fingers tapping succinctly against the edge of the counter as if asking for the check at the end of a fancy meal. 

Before Aziraphale is able to answer, a kind though surprised smile already flitting across his expression, Crowley inserts his arm in front of the suited stranger, barring him from direct access to the shop’s owner. If this man was going to bother “Mr Fell”, he was to have to go through a demon first.

“Who’s asking?” Crowley demands.

Crowley can practically hear Aziraphale roll his eyes behind Crowley’s back, always detesting the way Crowley doesn’t trust another soul. Aziraphale otherwise sports his typical polite, welcoming smile. The stranger pulls up his briefcase and lets it land heavily on the counter an inch away from Crowley’s outstretched hand. 

“My name is Mr Jonah Strauss,” The man tells him, as if dignified without even a title. Crowley had always found humans’ propensity to utilize biblical names to name their kin rather amusing in and of itself, “I’d like to buy your shop from you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t quite process what he’s said at first, “Welcome to Angelic- wait what?”

The thought passes his mind, he feels like he’s always just on the cusp of realizing important things. 

“Pardon me?” Aziraphale gasps, leaning forward involuntarily like the leaning tower of disbelief, “I don’t think I heard you right.”

Crowley locks up completely, joints stiff, eyes dark, arm still stretched out in a defensive diagonal “You want what?”

Mr Strauss continues to look completely prideful, “I’m a lawyer, and I work for a company that purchases large, traffic-heavy plots of land for a fair price and tears down any pre-existing structure to create a beneficial development of shops and boost the local economy.”

The sheer amount of stringent, guarded words causes Aziraphale to wrinkle his brow, “Pardon? I don’t think I quite understand, Mr Strauss.”

Crowley, however, is well versed in bullshit.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses sharply, his voice like a snake bite, “He wants to rip down the shop and put up a strip mall,”

“Oh.”

The gluey smile of the malevolent stranger doesn’t falter for a moment, “In a matter of words, yes,” He dictates, body stiff like a capitalistic statue. His eyes make a trail from Crowley’s red hair down to his neatly shined black leather shoes, “Though I must say, this is between me, Mr Fell, and the company I represent, so if you would please…”

Crowley doesn’t budge, eyes sharp like a rottweiler, his arm anchored on the countertop acting as the fence to keep the ferocious dog from attacking unwanted visitors.

“Yeah, no,” He says confidently, “I don’t think so.”

It’s a standoff between two demons, one very human and one mostly infernal- a wide-eyed Angel is stuck in the middle, the ethereal elephant in the room. The aforementioned angel can’t stand this. He shakes his head and goes around the long counter so he can face the human himself. 

Crowley’s eyes narrow on his ethereal partner, lips closed as he hisses Aziraphale’s name, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this wanker.”

But Aziraphale shakes his head, rolls his shoulders and pulls himself as tall as he can, “Sir,” Aziraphale declares at this straight-faced suit, voice as assertive as the day he stood up to a roomful of literal lions, “I’m going to ask you once- very politely, because I don’t want any fights really. I would truly appreciate it if you got the fuck off of my property, Mr Strauss,” The prim smile pasted onto Aziraphale’s utterly serene face is somehow even more intimidating than his brash profanity, “I have no desire to whore my property out to your capitalistic masters, thank you very much.”

In his defense, Mr Strauss just smiles, hardly even flinches in the presence of creatures he has no clue are quite so otherworldly. He’s probably used to this reaction. 

Mr Strauss shakes his head almost distractedly, gathers his case, straightens his suit as he stands, “Very well,” He says, voice serious, “Your loss then. Have a good day.”

Aziraphale glares at the door as he leans against the counter, “You have a lovely day too, sir.”

From there, Aziraphale calmly watches the man through the panoramic front windows of the shop until he sees him get in his car and drive away. Finally, he relaxes, smiling so genuinely at Crowley. It’s like he peels off his mask, steps out of character, and becomes classic, naive, helpless Aziraphale again. 

Crowley, as it turns out, can’t stop staring at him. 

“What?” Aziraphale demands, confused, as if he hadn’t just displayed a miles-out-of-character stroke of profanity. 

“You- you-“ Crowley’s eyes follow Aziraphale as he returns to his spot behind the counter, “Angel, you-,”

Aziraphale’s already wiggling his scoop into a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough, “I told you,” He says pointedly, a grin on his face as he presents the ice cream to Crowley moments later, “I can handle myself.”

“I know, angel,” There’s a fondness in Crowley’s eye that neither of them acknowledges, a rather angelic smile skirting the corners of his lips, “You can do anything.”

They dutifully ignore the blush high on Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

/////

“How long do you think I've been coming by here, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale shrugs, pours half a gallon of sprinkles into a low carton on the counter, “Dunno, couple hundred years? Close to a thousand. I’ve been here awhile.”

Crowley hums thoughtfully, sucks on his spoon. 

Aziraphale throws a towel over his shoulder and settles in for the oncoming conversation, “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, uncharacteristically shy, “Just thinking about how long we’ve been doing- whatever we’ve been doing.”

If merely for consistency’s sake, Aziraphale cocks his head, furrows a brow, naive and confused, “What do you mean?”

Crowley leans heavily against the countertop, gaze drifting upward towards the electric lights, “Just- you know-“ Crowley never had trouble with his words. Aziraphale narrows his eyes carefully, “ _This_.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale presses, voice as gentle as a crawling insect, as demanding as an angel’s wings.

“I don’t know how to- describe it, and well maybe that’s it,” The elongated pupils of Crowley’s snake eyes sink into the outer yellow parts like a still road in the dead of night, seemingly going on forever as he stares off into the distance at the center of Aziraphale’s forehead, “I don’t know what any of this is. It’s- well it’s all rather peculiar, isn’t it?”

His eyes are glossy, seemingly elsewhere, like glass slippers from a completely different kind of fairy tale. Aziraphale waits patiently. 

“It’s just- a lot of coincidences, isn’t it?”

“Coincidences?”

“Do you really have to repeat everything I say, angel?”

“Sorry. Please, continue.”

“Yes, coincidences. The old lady, that bloody businessman, the wanker who tried to take my seat. All here. You don’t see the- I don’t know, the _divine irony_ in it all?”

Aziraphale screws up his face thoughtfully, stares meaningfully at the glass case that protects the ice cream from unwanted, sticky fingers. He hums to himself. 

“Well, you know, there’s certainly a plan. No such thing as-“

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley sharply cuts him off with an exasperated groan that ripples through his argument, “You know as well as I that all that’s a bunch of hogwash.”

Aziraphale stiffens tellingly but shakes his head, “I just don’t think we should question-“

Crowley pushes himself off his stool suddenly, huffing, hisses, “ _You ancient fool_ -“

And so Crowley kisses Aziraphale right there on the lips with god and a dozen quarts of ice cream as witness, four pink walls as a pretty, movie-perfect backdrop, a gasp halfway out of the angel’s mouth before he quite realizes what’s happening. Crowley notes, somewhere in the depths of his mind, that Aziraphale tastes blissfully like clouds and sunshine (the way only an angel can), but also like coffee ice cream and whipped cream. He tastes like a million sundaes and a lifetime of never ending days. 

When Crowley pulls away, Aziraphale’s lips mold instantly into a soft “ _Oh_.”

“Like I said,” Crowley breathes, words sounding like a snake’s temperamental song, “Divine irony.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s breath is heavy as he leans against the ice team case, knuckles curling around the edge, “ _That_ divine irony, yeah. Got it. Uh.”

Crowley leans backwards, letting his weight fall back into his stool while his fingers keep a firm grasp at Aziraphale’s sleeve, “Why did we wait so long?”

“Well, I-“ Aziraphale pauses midway through his answer, cocks his head vaguely, “I guess I don't really know.”

“Not because of any plan, huh?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, his left hand leaves a sticky trail of ice cream along the laminate, but his right hand is much too busy entwining with Crowley’s for either of them to notice, “Something to do with your divine ironies, I guess, huh?”

Crowley hums contentedly as Aziraphale pushes on the counter to gain the leverage he needs to reach Crowley’s face again, and with his right hand he tugs Crowley close enough so that he can kiss him, and Crowley never wants to forget the feeling of the counter digging into his ribs or the taste of the coffee flavored ice cream lingering on Aziraphale’s tongue.


End file.
